by Byron Craft
I bid him farewell and turned to observe Bell picking up a discarded piece of narrow rope off the floor. Shaking it free of some of the dust and dirt it had accumulated over the years, he proceeded to tie one end of it into a loop. “The place seemed to give O’Malley the willies,” he stated nonchalantly.
“Yeah,” I answered. “Whaddya doing with the rope?”
“I’m making a leash for Robber. He needs a home Detective. Shouldn’t be wandering the streets all the time.” Robber pranced over to Bell, his tail wagging. The damn mutt, as if understanding Bell’s intention, stuck his head inside the rope loop. Securing it gently around the dog’s neck, my partner from the Mythos Division guided him to my side and handed me the makeshift leash. “Here you go, Sir. He needs someone to take care of him. You have a family, and my landlady doesn’t allow pets.”
I let the leash drop and Robber trotted back towards the white wall. “Let’s get out of here; I feel a draft.”
“But what about Robber and the leash, Sir?”
“Don’t worry about him. He’ll follow.”
“I can’t help wondering what made those scratches though,” he added voicing an afterthought as we walked out of the room.
I looked over my shoulder. I guess I’m a softy. I wanted to see if Robber was going to follow. He was up on his hind legs clawing at the plaster in the center of the drawing. “Robber, come!” I commanded. When he was by my side, I took hold of the leash.
***
He did not have a flashlight. He cursed himself for not having one at hand. There were only a few matches left in his coat pocket. He had slept for quite a while. He didn’t know for how long. He didn’t want to use up one of his three remaining matches so he could read the dial on his watch. He needed warmth though. It was cold in his dungeon, a system of underground tunnels where no light penetrated from the outside. The chilly damp air had made him shiver, and the shakes had driven him from his slumber.
Ian Woodhead needed to find a way to make a fire so he could get warm, then back to sleep and continue his journey. If he could find something to burn within the endless stone corridors would he eventually die of smoke inhalation or would the fire use up all the breathable air first? Maybe, he wished, that the catacombs he found himself in were so huge that they could safely contain a large air supply in addition to the fumes.
Shuffling his feet along the tunnel floor, Ian heard a dry rattle, taking the gamble, he struck one of his matches against the stone wall. The phosphorus end on the small wooden stick came to life with a blinding flash. Shielding his eyes momentarily from the bright glare, looking downward, he could make out several twigs scattered amongst the stones. Ian descended slowly into a squat, not wanting to generate a breeze of movement that might extinguish the flame, and gathered up a sparse bundle of prospective kindling. He transferred the dwindling flame on the match to one of the twigs. It sparked briefly and ignited. The improvised torch illuminated a sizable area around him. When raising the flaming stick over his head Ian Woodhead could only make out darkness above. It was both a discomforting sight as well as a welcome one because it meant that wherever the tunnel’s ceiling terminated, it must have been a good distance aloft and that implied sufficient airspace.
Ian was overjoyed while discovering an ample supply of firewood scattered here and there. Nesting material harbored away by some animal or remnants of firewood gathered by the dungeon’s last prisoner? Collecting an armload of wood, he settled for a shallow alcove in one of the stone walls. Using his skills, recalled from his days as a Boy Scout, he placed the sticks on the cold floor, in a wagon wheel pattern, and ignited its center. The light was very comforting. Very few people experience the terror of absolute darkness, the things it can conjure in the imagination, dwelling in a directionless black realm. Soon warmth would follow. He could already feel the thawing of the joints in his arms and legs. Escape needed to come soon. He could live for quite a while without food, however, without water, it would be a matter of days. Ian Woodhead closed his eyes and told himself to, “sleep,” perchance to dream.
***
I didn’t have a clue what the reception would be when I arrived home with Robber in tow. Would Mrs. Trumble promptly enact a “No Pets” policy, would my classy wife be repulsed by a mutt that hadn’t seen soap and water in Lord knows how long or would my daughter be frightened out of her wits by the hound? Letting myself in I was immediately greeted with a shrill scream.
“Daddy!” hollered Allison, “a doggie!” She ran to meet my canine companion.
And guess what? Robber didn’t mind the attention one bit. Nor did Allison show any sign of fear. They exchanged hugs and kisses as if they were old friends. “What’s his name?” she asked excitedly.
“Robber,” I answered.
“That’s a funny name, why do you call him that?”
“Just leave some food laying around, and you’ll find out.”
“Where did you get the dog, Copper?” asked Angel as she walked into the living room.
“He kinda followed me home.”
“On the end of a rope I see,” she said laughing.
“Yeah, well, that was Bell’s idea.”
“You know what this means?” she enquired with a teasing grin.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Two things, first if we are going to keep the pooch he is definitely going to need a bath, and second he is another reason why we need a house. Your Robber is going to need a backyard to run around in and do his business.”
I decided to return to Station House 13. That pile of paperwork was beginning to look very appealing.
***
Later that evening I returned to observe a different dog in my apartment. Robber had been scrubbed from tooth to claw. His yellow coat had a golden glow. Robber was laying on the sofa, his head cradled in Mrs. Trumble’s lap. There was a pink ribbon around his neck. “The pink ribbon has got to go,” I challenged.
“Nonsense,” countered old lady Trumble. “Allison was just playing dress-up with our baby.”
“Baby!” I started to say something else but thought better of it. They didn’t know Robber as I did. Then again maybe this was what the dog wanted all along. He seemed content enough. Changing the subject, I pointed to the top of his noggin, “What happened to the mange? It’s gone?”
“It wasn’t mange silly,” answered Angel, coming up from behind, and putting her arm around me. “It was some gooey residue.
“It looked like maple syrup, but it smelled like dead fish, added Mrs. Trumble. “It was a blessing to wash the stuff down the drain.”
“I take it you helped bathe Robber?”
My landlady nodded with a triumphant smile on her kisser. I guessed that put a damper on a “No Pets” policy.
***
There were two beers left in the icebox, and I drank both while the four of us ate dinner together . . . Five come to think of it. Robber had a plate of leftover pot roast. I was jealous, pot-roast is my favorite. I was saving it for later.
I retired early that evening. I must have fallen asleep right off because I felt that I had stepped from the solid earth into a gulf seething with the madness of haunted shadows and frightful screams. Pale rotting mugs floated in the darkness. I couldn't make out all their faces, but the ones I could were crying out . . . even in death.
I was lost to all sense of location or direction. The next thing I recalled was brightness. I was standing outside, it was a beautiful spring day, not like now with our cold rainy weather. They say that spring showers bring May flowers, but at the rate it’s falling in Arkham, it’s going to drown em’ all. Ahead of me was a Cape Cod style house, white with green trim and a roof that matched the trim. Nora was beside me. She pointed towards the house and said, “Look at the kitchen.” In an instant, I was standing within the vague aspect of what I took to be a living room. Following her direction, I entered the kitchen. Everything became as clear as reality. Yellow cupboards lined a wall with gray linole
um counters. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, “It has a refrigerator!”
Turning to look, a man in a suit and tie was obscuring my peek at the fridge. At first, I imagined him to be a real-estate salesman; then it dawned on me. It was Ian Woodhead. We had worked on a case together almost two years ago. I instantly remembered that it was his face that briefly shadowed my dream the night before. He looked deathly pale. Smiling, Ian stepped aside, took hold of the handle on the Frigidaire and opened its door. Expecting to see beer, hammocks and other perishables displayed on the metal shelves within, I was bamboozled to see rocks and stone. The inside of the fridge had become a shadowy portal that resembled the inside of a cave. There was no icebox inside, rather a doorway. A doorway to God knows where?
Ian beckoned me with an open hand to come closer. Against my will, my feet slid across the tiled floor, as if on ice, and my entire body raced towards the opening at breakneck speed. That’s when I woke up. The blankets rustled and Angel was at my side, “What’s the matter sweetheart?” she asked in a whisper and putting a hand to my forehead. “You cried out; you look troubled.”
“Just checking out real estate listings."
“Go back to sleep silly.”
***
The next morning, I was up in front of the Chief. He always had a way of making you emotionally small when summoned. It made me feel that I was called to the Principal’s office. I guess that’s why I quit school after the eighth grade. Public school, to me, was like living in a totalitarian state. I wondered if Officer O’Malley had turned us in for illegal entry. I thought I was about to get my butt chewed out. My partner, Bell, was conveniently filing our last bit of paperwork.
“Sit down,” he ordered. I pulled out a chair. “Got a call from the OSS,” he announced.
I was familiar with the outfit. The OSS was the Office of Strategic Services. Spies, but good guys, I always hoped. They were Feds that were primarily on the lookout for Nazi and Jap infiltrators that were up to no good. “What about it Chief?”
“Just sit there and shut up and I’ll tell you why Detective,” our Chief has never been one to be courteous. “One of their agents has turned up missing, and he was seen last in our neighborhood. His name is Ian Woodhead. Ring a bell?” he challenged.
The mention of Woodhead’s name took the wind out of my sails, first in my dreams and now this. “Yeah, I know him. We came close to trading a few shots, but later we had a few shots together. He’s an all right guy.” In a short time, I came to regard him as a good friend.
“They tell me he was tailing one of our citizens. A bloke, by the name of Francisco Sayter; he has a seafood establishment in town, down by the docks,” he offered.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him he’s the fishmonger that’s on the radio.” I’ve heard his jingle so many times that it is one of those awful things, that once heard, you can’t get it out of your skull. I’d come home, and the kid would be listening to the radio. I swear that every time his commercial aired the volume on the set would go up. “Hop, hop, hop over to the Happy Innsmouth Fisherman.” I need a drink every time I catch it.
“I want you to see what this guy is up to. Maybe we will be able to find out what happened to this Woodhead fella while we’re at it. I’m not crazy about sticking our noses into something that is probably out of our jurisdiction, but if we crack it, it may put us on the good side of the Feds. We do them a favor, and we might get one in return down the road. I don’t mind telling you Detective; I’ve got a gut feeling. There is something about this Francisco Sayter that is fishy.”
The Chief was dead serious. He probably never heard of the term “double entendre,” he didn’t have a sense of humor.
***
Bell and I were off on the case. The one thing I didn’t expect was to be the recipient of one of our latest cruisers. Before leaving the Chief’s office, he threw me the keys to a brand-new Model A Ford Deluxe Sedan that was equipped with an experimental flathead V8 engine under the hood. The car was known for its performance potential, sustaining speed and stability during a chase. The Ford had every other auto skinned. I barely concealed my excitement. The dream machine had a heater, a definite luxury in the current weather.
The Model A handled extremely well. It was raining buckets, and you can imagine my delight when I discovered that it was equipped with electric windshield wipers. I felt like a rich guy out for a Sunday excursion. Matthew Bell wanted to drive, but I told him to sit shotgun. Even though he felt it was his duty to drive, I wouldn’t let him behind the wheel. At least not until the bloom was off the rose and only then would I allow the uniform to chauffeur me around.
The thought did dawn on me that the Ford was a cheap way for our Chief to get around my scheduled pay raise. Due to the shortage of personnel at Station House 13, because of cutbacks, there was an excess of vehicles in the motor pool. I was approaching my twentieth year on the force and was owed a wage increase. I was hoping that the anticipated swelling of my bankroll would help ease the pain of a mortgage for a new home. Oh well, I was going to have to break it gently to Angel.
The rain stopped and the bright morning sun made a nice-looking show on the wet pavement. The wind would have felt sharp, but we were snug within the warmth of the Ford. We drove along the newly renovated waterfront. Last year all the buildings adjacent to the Miskatonic River burnt down. It had been a foul slum and brothel district north of Arkham Commons that once belonged to the late Corvus Astaroth. It was alleged that he was the one responsible for torching the district, but after Bell and I extinguished his life-force, no evidence could be found to implicate him.
Francisco Sayter’s place of business was in one of the new concrete and steel buildings that had sprung up after Astaroth’s instant urban renewal. I pulled up in front of a pair of metal overhead doors and parked alongside a nifty looking Duesenberg, midnight blue. Inside I heard that crappy radio ad blaring throughout the lobby. Once finished there was a brief pause, and it would repeat. “Hop, hop, hop over to the Happy Innsmouth Fisherman. AND REMEMBER mom, dad, and kids!” an announcer cut in, “take advantage of the Happy Innsmouth Fisherman’s weekly special. Buy three octopi and get the fourth-one for just one penny. A great bargain for the whole family!” Then that lousy jingle started again.
The lobby had been left unattended. Behind an empty desk stood a steel door painted gray. I looked at Bell, “If I hear that damn commercial much longer I’m going to do something drastic. I will need you at my back. Are you with me?”
“Yes, Sir,” he answered, I thought a little too soon.
I don’t believe in coincidences and seeing Ian Woodhead’s kisser in my dreams twice told me that action was required. What that dogfight was going to be I did not know, only that it would start that minute. Another one of my epiphanies, I surmised. “That will mean following my instructions promptly and without question.”
"I can do that, Sir."
The ad with its sickening jingle was repeating for the third time. The steel door was unlocked, and I kicked it open. It slammed against an adjacent wall. There was a phonograph sitting on top of a card table. The newfangled kind that you didn’t have to wind up. A cord hung off the back, and it was plugged into an electric socket. I wasn’t fast enough. The fishmonger’s ad was going into its fourth repeat when I walked over to it. The record changer had been set to replay every time it finished a turn. I grabbed the arm of the player and jerked it off the record. The needle made a loud scratching noise.
A voice that sounded like it came from inside of a kettledrum hollered at me, “Leave that alone!”
"Wire your congressman," I shot back. Something about my voice fascinates me.
Even sitting down, Francisco Sayter, was the same height as most of the cops in our precinct. When he eventually got to his feet, we understood just how imposing his height was. The fishmonger was all decked out in dark clothing from head to foot and draped over his massive frame was one of those black dusters, like the kind that cowpokes us
ed to wear. Atop Sayter’s noodle was a large brimmed slouched hat. His legs looked abnormally large; they were so fat that his slacks must have been tailor-made to accommodate the girth. He was hatchet-faced, sporting a mustache and goatee that reminded me of a goat. Francisco Sayter towered over my six-foot-plus frame and looked down at me as any scolding parent would to a mischievous child. He took a step toward us and I, in turn, pulled back my lapel with my left-hand exposing my badge and my right rested on my shoulder holster. Unbeknownst to me, at the time, Bell was brandishing his .45. “Arkham constabulary. Here to ask you a few questions.”
Sayter had been sitting in a chair in the middle of a loading dock watching his employees unload crates of dead fish when we came barging into his establishment. The dock workers froze in their tracks and stared at us. “What about?” he asked anger seethed in both words.
“Lobby,” I said indicating the door we just came through.
“Back to work,” he ordered without looking in their direction. As if someone just threw a switch the dock workers, in unison, went about their business unloading boxes.
Officer Bell held the door to the lobby open while still displaying his piece. Sayter walked by me with an evil glare, strolled over to where Bell stood, looked down his long thin pointed nose at him, smiled and stepped into the lobby.
Sayter sat atop the receptionist’s deck while Bell and I remained standing. For the first time, we met eye-to-eye with the suspect. He smelled like his dead fish. “We’re looking for a friend of yours,” I said peering at his unpleasant mug. I am certain that the Chief would have preferred a more subtle method, such as tailing him for weeks on end, but I favor the direct approach.
“I do not socialize,” he drawled out in deep tones.
“No doubt about it, Frances, with a kisser like yours, you wouldn’t make the society page.”